


King Midas Meets The Woman  (or Verpa Rex versus Clitoridis Regina)

by DarlingSupreme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Complicated issues of consent (though not between Sherlock & John), Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, For Science!, It's mostly porn, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Medical Kink, Mild Gore, Multi, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sounds like crack but it isn't, Unsafe BDSM practices (not between Sherlock & John), Warnings May Change, Well not exactly crack anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingSupreme/pseuds/DarlingSupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes can never solve the riddle that is John Watson.  Unless Sherlock is the solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flawedamythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/gifts), [Francesca_Wayland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Francesca_Wayland/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Midas Touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479868) by [flawedamythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst). 



> This story seriously won’t make a lick of sense if you haven’t read “The Midas Touch” by Flawedamythyst, so if you haven’t read it, please do so immediately. Takes place in the same universe where John is not only a retired army doctor and a consulting detective’s partner, he is also renowned for his rare medical condition “Medica Verpa” aka the magical healing cock. It sounds absurd, I know. Truly absurd. But trust me! Read “Midas Touch”, then read on. You’ll thank me ;-)
> 
> It's my very first fic and I'm kinda freaking out about posting this. Many many thanks to Francesca_Wayland and cwb for fabulous beta & Britpicking & general hand holding. And thanks to the ever gracious flawedamythyst for letting me play in her beautiful Johnlock world.
> 
> Cross my heart, I will post updates weekly!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes can never solve the riddle that is John Watson. Unless Sherlock is the solution.

It might be difficult to imagine that two men as extraordinary as one William Sherlock Scott Holmes, whose mind possesses infinite problem-solving capacities, and one John Hamish Watson, whose body possesses infinite healing capacities, could build a life together that resembled anything like an ordinary one. And yet, that is exactly what happened.

Each operated in a separate sphere using his unique and extraordinary talents, each with repeated, dazzling results. Each took his own successes in stride, John with polite humility, and Sherlock with perfunctory contempt. And both returned home to their flat at the end of each day feeling just a bit giddy at the thought that the other would be there.

John moved through his daily routines with a tidiness and efficiency that Sherlock found soothing. The ritual cups of tea, the morning papers, the soapy handjobs in the shower when John returned from the clinic wanting to rid himself of the smell of medical-grade lubricant – these small events had a domesticating effect on Sherlock. He relished this newly found flow to their daily life, and found the simplest things enchanting in ways he never would have imagined before a life with John.

But for all the stability John offered Sherlock, John had an entirely different experience of their shared domesticity. Before meeting his friend, John had been growing weary of his duty-bound way of life. From caretaker in a family of alcoholics, to physician and army captain, he had always performed his various roles with maximum competence and minimum complaint. He administered his sexual services to the gravely infirmed every single day of his life from the age of seventeen because it was right and necessary. But the cumulative weight of so many obligations had been steadily grinding the joy out of him for years. John, being John, had always simply soldiered on, literally and figuratively, burying his own needs in a box somewhere deep in his psyche. And Sherlock, despite his self-proclaimed disdain for human emotion, found himself drawn in, beguiled by the mysterious contents in that invisible box, hidden behind the weariness in John’s eyes. Anyone with lesser observational skills wouldn’t have noticed.

Sherlock saw John as an endlessly fascinating riddle. Contradiction personified. The polite Englishman given to sudden outbursts of swearing. The military sniper in the woolly jumper. The good doctor who could choose to save your life or end it. The contrasts captivated Sherlock’s imagination like a fractal, running in point and counterpoint. He spent hours each day looking for a unifying principle, trying to puzzle him out. It wasn’t an intellectual exercise, or even a decision really. It was unconscious. Intuitive. John became his centre of gravity. And while Sherlock found solace in the stability John provided, it was the spark that caught in John’s eyes that he craved. He saw it ignite with that very first “Oh God, yes,” when they bounded off across London to examine Jennifer Wilson’s body. And on every case thereafter, Sherlock Holmes watched in amazement as John Watson gradually inhabited a more vigorous life.

Sure, John continued to put in his hours at the NHS, fucking the dying and completing his paperwork. He continued to wash the dishes, buy the milk, and tidy up Sherlock’s scientific detritus. But that was just duty. The back alley chases, the grizzly corpses, the midnight feasts of leftover curry,  this was John’s real life. Sherlock noticed glimmers of John’s vibrance shine brighter each day. He spoke more freely. He laughed more frequently. His limp evaporated. And, his eyes danced with pleasure every time Sherlock spoke.

They were the best of friends. It couldn’t have been better. And then it got better.

Within a few weeks of sleeping together, both men reached the peak of their vitality. Even Sherlock’s self-diagnosed “low libido” responded miraculously to the doctor’s healing touch. It was a balanced arrangement that benefited both men tremendously, and their improved mental and physical health was visible to all those who knew them. Mrs. Hudson beamed whenever she saw them. Molly teased them about their pinker cheeks. Lestrade received fewer and fewer distress calls from John (the kind where John begged him for anything, anything to occupy Sherlock’s tortured brain), so the Detective Inspector eventually started saving up his favours for what John called “the juiciest cases” (locked-room murders, unusual serial thefts, cannibalism). They averaged about two cases per week.

In between cases, Sherlock contented himself playing the violin and working on experiments, even venturing into the kitchen occasionally to make dinner. He was now willing to eat something every day and sleep almost every night because it made John’s smile reach all the way up to his sparkling eyes.

It was the steady diet of endorphins, prolactin, and oxytocin, accompanying regular ejaculation, that worked better than a mood stabiliser on Sherlock. And as for John, the Great Shagging Medical Marvel hadn’t truly discovered his own pleasure until Sherlock insisted upon it. In fact, Sherlock had made it his scientific mission to keep John on the edge of orgasm for as many consecutive minutes as possible (twelve minutes max; several spreadsheets were involved.) Finally,  finally for the first time in their lives, John Watson was truly enjoying sex, Sherlock Holmes was truly enjoying sex, and they were very happily in love.

Mycroft deliberately hid his relief, but was secretly delighted to see his brother thriving. He gradually reduced his surveillance and limited his antagonistic interactions with Sherlock to a minimum. So, it was quite surprising to John when he emerged naked from the bathroom one Sunday morning, freshly showered and shaved, to the sight of an umbrella resting against the armchair in the sitting room.

“Please cover yourself, John. As you can see, we have an uninvited guest,” Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope. Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s remark.

“Morning, Mycroft,” John said with mild surprise in his tone, before ducking  back into the bathroom to wrap a towel around his hips. “Morning, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft replied, turning the page in his newspaper.

John emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a flash. “Well isn’t this a scene: the Holmes brothers enjoying a Sunday morning together. Shall I throw together an omelette?” John shot an amused look at Sherlock, who was definitely rolling his eyes behind the microscope.

Sherlock droned, “That won’t be necessary. Mycroft really can’t stay.”

“This is strictly a business visit, I assure you,” Mycroft interrupted, setting his paper aside and squinting his eyes above a sour half-smile. “I only need a few minutes of your time.” He slid a folder across the table towards John.

“For me?” John jerked his head in surprise. “Really? Not for Sherlock?”

“He won’t tell me anything about it, John,” Sherlock stated in an even monotone, feigning disinterest.

John flipped the folder open to scan its contents. After turning a few pages silently he raised his eyebrows and let out a huff of surprise. “Hmm. Didn’t know you were into this sort of thing, Mycroft.”

“I’m not. Not in the  least .” Mycroft spat emphatically. “But it is of great importance to my colleagues and I that we keep track of someone who is.”

Sherlock finally snapped, “Give me that!” He stormed across the room and lunged at the file, snapping it out of  John’s hands. John didn’t resist. He secretly loved watching the way Sherlock’s eyes turned the colour of mercury when he greedily devoured data.

Mycroft cleared his throat to try to get John’s attention. “Her name is Irene Adler, known professionally as ‘The Woman.’ She’s provided London’s elite with her particular brand of, shall we say, non-conventional services, for years. But thanks to an entanglement with a dangerous sheik and a very elaborate plea bargain, she was recently persuaded to work for us. Now she’s our highest level operative.”

“Quite a coup for you,” Sherlock conceded.

“Yes it was. And we’ve found the intelligence she’s been able to garner absolutely invaluable.” Mycroft watched them scour the pages. “Unfortunately, she’s going to be murdered in two days.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Murdered? And you know this, how?”

“She knows it, too,” Mycroft continued. “One of her so-called  clients is an unsavoury character by the name of Sebastian Moran, James Moriarty’s second-in-command.”

At the mention of Moriarty’s name, John and Sherlock both shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other. Since the incident at the pool, they hadn’t been able to find a single point of access to the man or his network, despite months of investigating. He seemed to have vanished completely.

Sherlock’s mental wheels were whirring. “Moran. I’ve heard of him. I didn’t realize he was in England.”

“We wouldn’t have known without her help. It took a great deal of coaxing for her to gain access to him. Months of work, planting rumours with her established clients that she was skilled in a particularly hazardous form of  sexual accommodation.” Mycroft spoke as if the words would actually contaminate him. “We hoped this would draw out the fetishists who knew Moran or might know his whereabouts. We had never imagined it would land us the big fish.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted around rapidly. “Ahhh! But it has.”

“Sorry. Erm, how does this involve me, exactly?” John asked rubbing his forehead as if he was were developing a migraine.

Sherlock was watching it all unfold in his mind. “Bloodplay John! Can’t you see it!? You’ll need to revive her!”

Mycroft continued calmly, “Moran will act out a highly sadistic fantasy with her. She has consented to this, but she’s giving him the upper hand by pretending she doesn’t know it will be fatal.”

“Dear god,” John muttered, looking aghast.

“She will likely lose a great deal of blood. You will have a very narrow window of time in which to complete the procedure.”

John sounded increasingly alarmed. “How narrow?”

“Hard to know in advance. All we can do is plan carefully and have contingencies.”

John protested, “Why the hell can’t he just be captured? In flagrante? He’ll be sitting prey, won’t he?”

“If he’s allowed to leave and roam freely we can track him,” Mycroft answered solemnly, “and he’ll lead us to everything and everyone Moriarty has ever touched – as well as Moriarty himself.”

Sherlock was in a reverie.  John couldn’t see what was spinning behind his silver eyes, but it was clearly spectacular.

Mycroft stood up and faced John squarely. “We’ve been hunting Moran for nearly seven years. This man has never been captured, tracked, or even identified.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

Mycroft continued, “You would remain completely out of harm’s way, and escorted to the premises by our security detail only after Moran’s departure is verified. Every precaution would be--”

Something suddenly caught in Sherlock’s wheels, breaking his attention, “Security detail?  I’m his security detail!” he shouted, indignantly. “John won’t take any part in this without me!”

John was taken aback, simultaneously trying to understand the mission whilst processing Sherlock’s sudden possessiveness.

“Sherlock,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. “Don’t get carried away. It doesn’t sound dangerous, not for me at least. I’ll do my job like I do at the clinic. I just do what needs to be done to make someone well. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock’s tone was low and fierce. “Anything even remotely connected to Moriarty is dangerous.”

Mycroft stood up, ignoring the tension that had swelled between them. “So you’re amenable then,” he stated decisively. He picked up his umbrella and headed for the door. “Very good. Ms. Adler will meet you at 5:00pm. My assistant will contact you with the details.”

“What?” both men snapped at Mycroft.

“One of Ms. Adler’s non-negotiables, I’m afraid. She absolutely insisted upon meeting you in advance.”

John almost smirked, “Well that’s kind of quaint, isn’t it?”

“Both of you,” he corrected, which caught them off guard. “She’s an avid reader of both of your blogs.”

And with that he closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next week with chapter 2! If the spirit moves you, please leave comments/kudos. They massage my feeble ego in ways you cannot possibly imagine...


	2. Dry Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Woman's pursuits are purely heuristic.
> 
> SURPRISE! I'm posting Chapter 2 already. Enjoy the medical-kinky weird sex :-)

They arrived at the hotel bar in St James at precisely 5:00pm and brushed the rain out of their hair. It wasn’t particularly crowded. Sitting in the corner booth as instructed, John greeted his pint with tremendous relief and happily guzzled it down while Sherlock nursed a very expensive cabernet out of something resembling a glass balloon. At 5:20 they gave in and ordered a second round, and at 5:45, John was feeling simultaneously more buzzed and more nervous. That’s when a sweet-faced waitress showed up to ask them if they’d like to order dinner. “We have an excellent veal stew,” she offered and slid a folded piece of paper onto the table.

Sherlock opened it partially and slipped it into his pocket. “No, thank you,” he nodded. “Please bill our drinks to room 527.”

****

The small gilded elevator delivered them to the penthouse level where a dimly lit hall led to an ornate parlour with a crackling fire in the fireplace. “Come in,” a silky voice called from an adjacent room. “Please! Help yourself to the bar. I’ll be right with you.” John and Sherlock sat on the damask silk settee for a moment, taking in the opulent surroundings, when Irene Adler emerged ending a call on her mobile phone. “Gentlemen. So sorry to keep you waiting.” She was slipping into her heels and wrapping herself in a sheer, black kimono whilst removing a dramatic pair of sparkling earrings. “Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes. I do apologise. It’s been a long day.” Finally, she sat in a velvet chair, and the three of them exchanged glances.

Now that she was still, John and Sherlock looked at her with interest. She was wickedly beautiful, illuminated by the fire, her hair wrapped tightly in a low mound of curls at the nape of her neck. Instinctively, Sherlock inched closer to John. John cleared his throat. “You wanted to meet us, Miss Adler?”

“Irene, please,” she insisted, lowering her lashes.

“Irene, yes,” John hesitated, “Well--”

“What do you need from us?” Sherlock blurted out, betraying his nervousness. John shot him a disapproving glare.

“Need?” Irene asked playfully, pouting a little. She deliberately narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. “I need to know I can trust you.” She stood and fetched three glasses and a bottle of wine from the bar, her nudity visible in the firelight despite a lacy negligee under the kimono. She sat back in her chair and poured them each a glass. “I’ll be putting my life in your hands in less than two days’ time.” She sipped her glass thoughtfully and tried to read John’s facial expression. “Certainly that’s not too much to ask.”

There was silence between them, but the air was charged with tension.

John cleared his throat again. “Yes, of course,” he said quickly. “Of course.” He schooled his expression and tried not to notice the shadows of her nipples peeking through the filigree of black lace across her breasts. Sherlock noticed his efforts. Irene raked her eyes over both of them. She caught Sherlock’s eye and lifted her chin towards him in understanding.

“I see,” she nodded. Her words were quiet, slow, and emphatic. “Your blogs leave out a great deal about your relationship.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked on Irene’s. He acknowledged her with a mild nod, and sounded a bit defiant. “Yes, actually. They do.”

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Irene, raising his eyebrows so high that it creased his forehead. He perceived by their locked gazes that information had been exchanged, but for the life of him he couldn’t decipher what. Irene continued to gaze at Sherlock with bright, searching eyes. She spoke slowly, hypnotically. “No worries, gentlemen.” She took a large sip of her wine and tasted it on her bottom lip. “I’m not a purveyor of secrets.”

Sherlock’s eyes were softening as he took her in. “No. I imagine you to be more of a procurer.”

“Not tonight,” she corrected him shaking her head. “Tonight, I just need proof,” she said as she reached for the wine opener on the table and pried out the knife attachment, “that this absolutely bizarre plan of your brother’s will actually work.”

She drew apart her dressing gown to reveal her crossed legs, glossy from the glow of the firelight, and traced a long, languorous line with the knife’s edge along her right thigh.

“Jesus!” John reacted instinctively, jumping out of his seat, “What in fucking Christ’s name!” He lunged at the bar, looking for a cloth to apply to the wound.

Sherlock continued to hold eye contact with her, eerily calm. “Leave it, John.” he said steadily. “She’s just testing you.”

Irene and Sherlock remained perfectly still, never once looking down at the drops of blood trailing down her calf.  They were like the eye of a storm while John was a hurricane of activity around them. Finally John stopped himself, panting in confusion.

“Why don’t you show me your magic trick, Doctor Watson,” Irene cooed. She parted her knees and reclined a bit. “I understand it’s much less painful than stitches.”

John scratched his head, embarrassed. “Yes, well.” He straightened his shoulders, adjusting to the dramatic turn his reality had just taken. “Right.” He nodded, took a deep breath, and exhaled, then circled around the settee to her chair and unbuckled his belt, looking between the two of them again. They still seemed to be locked in some sort of telepathic communication. He toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks. “So, are you two going to do that all night?”

Irene and Sherlock both smirked and looked at John simultaneously when his belt buckle clinked as his trousers hit the floor. Sherlock watched John, noting his complete and sudden change in demeanour. He began stacking his things in a neat pile and unbuttoning his cuffs with business-like efficiency. This was a side of John, he realised, he’d never been able to see in action: Watson the medical marvel. Not John his lover, but the magical healer who dutifully copulated with the terminally ill day in and day out.

Sherlock’s heart rate spiked as he watched John,  his John, now completely naked, approach Irene with an expression of impenetrable nonchalance. John was nearly erect, but his eyes held no spark, and Sherlock felt an urgent need to touch him. With a single stride he closed in on John’s side and put his hand on the back of John’s neck, distracting John from his purpose.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and held it still. He gave Irene a polite smile before tilting his head toward Sherlock. “Please, Sherlock. Now’s not the time to be possessive. Just let me do my work.” He stepped past him toward Irene who was arching up towards John from her chair. “Not here, Irene. I’m used to a horizontal workspace.”

“You mean a bed?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That will do, I suppose. I have an operating table at the clinic.”

She rolled her eyes. “God, how terribly dreary.”

“And have you got any lubricant? I didn’t think to bring supplies.”

“Supplies?” she condescended. “My dear man, you have no idea how dull you’re making this sound.”

Sherlock interrupted, running his hands up John’s muscular back, “It isn’t dull, I assure you. He’s just not used to having an aroused partner. Unless it’s me, of course.”

“ I don’t even get particularly aroused when I’m working – just enough to get the job done,” he explained, sounding totally rational.

“Unless it’s with me, of course,” Sherlock rumbled as he licked a stripe up the side of John’s neck and kneaded his pectoral muscles. John’s knees buckled slightly.

Irene let her head drop to one side, taking in the sight of these two beautiful creatures. “That. Is.  Fascinating .”

John began to lose himself in the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers on his skin, but then he noticed the blood pooling around the top of Irene’s shoe. This snapped him back to reality. He spun around to look at Sherlock and grabbed his face, planting a peck on his lips, “Darling, stop it. I have to concentrate. She’s bleeding!”

“It’s not too deep,” she purred at them. “Please, take your time.”

“But we won’t have time once Moran hurts you. So let me fix this. Now. Please.” He tore away from Sherlock’s grasp and unceremoniously grabbed Irene’s knees, yanking her to the edge of the chair. “So, no lube then?”

She rolled her eyes and smiled sarcastically, “This room is a rental. I don’t have my ‘supplies’ here either.”

“Fair enough,” John shrugged, and spit saliva into his palm.

Irene looked offended. “Rather primitive, aren’t we?”

“Just allow me to complete the procedure,” John stated, reaching between her legs to unsnap the negligee at her crotch with one hand, and weaving the fingers of his other hand through her pubic hair until he located her labia. He traced his finger through the cleft and opened them wide, slathering them with the saliva from his palm.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He sat on the settee again, studying John with fascination. He had watched John move into position over his own body so many times, but this looked entirely different. John’s face was utterly neutral. His hands worked mechanically. And, as he penetrated Irene, he didn’t so much as wrinkle his nose. His eyelashes blinked a few extra times as he hauled himself forward and grabbed her by the waist, but he seemed unaffected as his hips bounced into a steady rocking motion.

Sherlock had never watched a live sexual encounter before, and here were, very possibly, the two most sexually experienced individuals in London shagging on a parlour chair inches from where he sat. Yet somehow he found it more confusing than arousing. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the contrast between  this John and  his John: John his lover. His Vesuvius. The man who lapped at Sherlock’s nipples and nuzzled Sherlock’s armpit hair. The man who loved to interrupt fellatio for deep tongue kisses. The man who trembled under Sherlock’s hands and never lost eye contact.  This John was most definitely not  his John. This John stared at the space around Irene, as if he were politely avoiding eye contact with another bloke at the urinal.

Fascinating.

Sherlock noticed that Irene seemed to be studying John as well. She was arched back and propped up on her elbows, her breasts bouncing lightly in rhythm with their movements, her legs tightly engaged around his waist. But her eyes constantly wandered over John’s face, periodically tilting her head from one side to the other, searching his expression. Her breathing was only slightly elevated and her cheeks were only slightly flushed. It was obvious to Sherlock that her mind seemed more engaged than her body, while John’s mind seemed to have vacated the building as his body worked on autopilot.

After six or seven surreal minutes had passed, John started slamming into her, slowing his pace with a series of deliberate thrusts. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment before clenching his lovely arse muscles in a final release with a quiet cough. Irene inhaled and exhaled deeply and reached up to move a piece of stray hair off of John’s brow, but he tossed his head to the side and sniffed a bit, gathering his dignity and looking towards Sherlock. He cleared his throat and asked in a strangely courteous tone, “Sherlock, two wet flannels if you please?”

Sherlock had been staring, deeply entranced, noting the beautiful glimmer of the firelight reflecting on John’s lightly perspiring forehead, but John’s request broke the spell. He dashed off to find the bathroom and grabbed the cloths off the neatly arranged towel rack. It felt grounding to wait for the tap water to warm up under his hands. He looked at himself in the mirror and took a deep breath, noticing his own erection visibly pressing out from within his trousers. Strange, he thought to himself. That really wasn’t terribly erotic.

He wrung out the flannels and returned to find John and Irene in the same pose, with Irene resting fully back on the chair and John making circles with his head to stretch his neck muscles. Sherlock thought he looked a bit like a boxer recovering between rounds.

“Thank you,” John said in a stilted tone, as if a stranger were holding a door open for him. He pinched the warm cloth around the base of his cock and slid out of Irene without ceremony. She accepted the second flannel from Sherlock with a quizzical look on her face, as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened. John wiped himself down with one side of the flannel and then folded it over exposing the clean side. “Now let’s take a look at that laceration. Sherlock, get the light would you?” John was all doctor now. He efficiently cleaned the blood stains off her shin and knee, and when the bright light came on he knelt close to her thigh and wiped it gently.

As bizarre as this interlude had been, Sherlock found himself thrilling with anticipation at the idea of what was about to happen next. He’d never actually seen the workings of  Medica Verpa on an open wound, and the scientist in him felt like it was Christmas morning. He watched John trace the length of Irene’s thigh with the flannel and noticed his expression fall. John leaned in closer and his eyes widened. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and looked a third time.

Irene’s eyes narrowed inspecting the wound. “How long does it usually take?” she asked, confused.

“I don’t understand,” John spoke quietly, almost to himself, as his fingers moved on either side of the cut to inspect it from different angles. He shook his head incredulously. “It’s… just…it’s still… bleeding somehow.”

“Well?” Sherlock echoed Irene, but more insistently. “How long does it usually take?”

“That’s just it. It’s always been instantaneous.” He looked up at Sherlock, gobsmacked. “That is, after ejaculation anyway.” John wiped her leg again. “This has never happened before.” He worried the wet flannel in his hands and continued to blot at the trickle of blood, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t understand.”

Irene sat in stunned silence for a full minute while Sherlock peppered John with silly questions about whether he was sure he had ejaculated, and John spouted irritated responses between tugging on his pants and his vest. When Irene finally spoke, her thoughtful expression had darkened. Her voice was low and shaking with rage.

“You lot think you’re so clever.” Her words brought their bickering to an abrupt stop. “No one ever intended to revive me. You’re a bloody hoax!”

John looked crestfallen. “Irene, please, I assure you--”

“Your  assurances aren’t worth the spit on your palm,  Doctor Watson!” She stood up indignantly, and tied the sash on her kimono tightly. “You tell the Queen’s little army of twats that I’m not some disposable whore!”

She stormed toward the bedroom, but Sherlock moved swiftly to intercept her.

“Irene! I’ve lived with John for years. I’ve watched countless people at death’s door bound out of our flat in the pink of health after having the chance to be healed by John. He’s been studied! He’s been in the papers and in medical journals! All of it, absolutely verifiable!”

She shook her head and attempted to pass him, but Sherlock grabbed her arms to look at her closely. He appealed to her intellect.

“Think! You know Mycroft wouldn’t have let us come here unless he was absolutely certain of John’s authenticity.” Their eyes locked. “If it were a hoax, why would he let you find out in advance?!”

Irene regarded him suspiciously, and then looked toward John. Sherlock adjusted his stance to meet her eyes again.

“There must be an explanation for this anomaly. There simply must be!”

“Must there be?” she questioned in a sarcastic tone, “Maybe I’m just, ” she shrugged with a tight smile, “I don’t know, the one exception? The only person on Earth immune to  Medica Verpa ?”

John had been sitting on the settee tapping two fingers against his pouting lips, thinking hard. Suddenly the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. “There actually   might be. There  is  an exception.”

Sherlock and Irene simultaneously cocked their heads toward John, questioningly.

“I never believed it. I didn’t think it was true, but I’ve heard about  an exception. Just once. It was a long time ago, when I was at uni. There was a doctoral student in biology who was writing her dissertation on  Medica Verpa and she interviewed me. I remember she said it was an exceptionally rare phenomenon, maybe only two documented cases, if I remember correctly.” He was tugging on his chin now, squinting in an effort to remember. “Those two female patients, she told me, had to …” he straightened his back and sounded surprised at his own words, “had to… achieve orgasm … in order for the healing to take effect.” John smirked at the memory. He shrugged and looked up at Irene and Sherlock. “I just thought she was taking the piss, or making some extremely academic attempt at seducing me.” He looked back at the fire as his mind’s eye appeared to land on a particularly pleasing memory. “But I never thought about it again. I never looked it up or anything. Don’t know if it was true.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed lightning-bright. “Interesting.”

John shook his head again, uncertain. “I just thought she was flirting, you know. Trying to get in my pants, which she did, actually. But I almost can’t imagine how it could be true. It seems extremely unlikely..”

Irene raised an eyebrow, “More unlikely than a cock with magical healing properties?”

“Well that’s true, yeah. I suppose,” John acquiesced.

Sherlock let his arms slide down to Irene’s sides and their eyes met. He spoke to her softly, “Sounds like an experiment may be in order.”

“Afraid so,” John agreed.

Irene scanned their faces with a noncommittal expression for a long time. Then she finally sighed. “I guess there’s no harm in that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone notice the gratuitous OSS 117 reference? Either way, please consider leaving me a yummy comment or some tasty kudos. I crave delicious reader-love XD


	3. Clitoridis Regina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heuristic goes hedonistic. And it's a bit not bad.

John followed Irene into the bedroom, grabbing the wine and glasses on his way. Sherlock wasn’t sure where he should be, so he collapsed on the settee and pulled out his phone to review recent medical research on female orgasm. Within a minute, he gleaned the anatomy and physiology of the pudendal nerve.

“Sherlock,” he heard Irene call from the bedroom, “won’t you join us?” Sherlock scrolled to a diagram of female genitalia and enlarged it. Irene’s head peaked through the doorway and caught sight of him. “You’re doing research, aren’t you!” She smiled, delighted with him. “Ever the scientist.”

“Just thought some anatomical data might be useful.”

John piped in from the other room, “Please, Sherlock. I’m a doctor.”

Irene offered Sherlock a hand to pull him out of his seat, and as he rose he confided in her in a whisper, “I don’t think he’s actually tried to please a female sex partner since he was a teenager.”

Irene tsked and looked askance. “No. That won’t do at all.”

John poked his head out of the bedroom, “Are you two actually talking about me? I’m not bloody deaf, you know!”

Not deaf. Right. Sherlock grabbed the third glass and followed behind Irene.

The bedroom was richly decorated with tufted pillows and brocade curtains. A large picture window overlooked foggy rooftops with strands of peach evening light streaming through the silhouetted buildings like an impressionist painting. John was sitting up against the padded headboard, taking a sip of wine. He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

Irene launched in with authority. “Now. Let’s get things off to a proper start this time. Shall we?” She moved towards Sherlock and pushed him back on the bed. Straddling his thigh, she unbuttoned his dark shirt quickly and carefully and hungrily devoured his lips.

Sherlock looked a bit stunned. “My involvement in this experiment isn’t exactly necessary,” he stated, coolly.

“On the contrary,” she countered, “I don’t think your boyfriend stands a chance without your help.”

“Oi!” John glared at them and slammed back his last gulp of wine. “Not deaf! Remember?”

Sherlock was currently hypnotised by Irene’s provocative stare. He felt confused. And amazed. And a bit sweaty all of the sudden. He looked back at John who looked similarly dazed, but who crawled on his hands and knees toward Sherlock with determination. Like a lover. His John was back. He settled behind Sherlock and finished pulling off his shirt while Irene began working on his trousers. Sherlock watched Irene remove his shoes and socks, then his trousers and pants, feeling quite hazy, like he was having a very good dream.

He turned around to help John out of his underwear, and Irene let her kimono drop to the floor. She pulled her negligee down over her shoulders and stood naked in her heels, still bleeding down one leg. Sherlock and John kissed each other deeply, not noticing Irene kick off her shoes and unpin her hair. She stretched out on her side and watched the two men move together. Two different shades of skin. Two different sets of musculature. She studied how Sherlock moved sinuously along John’s body, and how John came to life in Sherlock’s arms. He was licking at Sherlock’s hipbone like a cat, so different from how he had appeared earlier. She couldn’t believe it was the same man. They were magnificent, these two, she thought to herself.

Irene dipped her index finger in her mouth and brought it down between her legs. She slid comfortably onto her back and spread her knees open. John caught sight of her and rolled over in her direction. Sherlock followed behind him, his hand disappearing behind and underneath John while John’s finger traced a long line down from her throat to her navel. Sherlock was kneading John’s testicles now, and it was hard for John to concentrate, but he kissed Irene’s ear, and her jaw, and eventually licked a deep kiss into her mouth.

Sherlock released John and snaked his way around to Irene’s waist, lowering his head between her parted thighs. First he used his fingers to trace the anatomy as he recognised it, then he lavished her clitoris generously with a warm, wet kiss. Irene reflexively opened her knees flat against the mattress like a butterfly, and her abdominal muscles became rigid.

John stared at Sherlock in awe, watching him work Irene with his tongue in lazy circles. Yet another instance of the man’s startling ingenuity, he thought to himself. He reverently stroked Sherlock’s dark curls, watching his head undulate between her thighs. Irene’s eyes were mostly closed, but she acknowledged John’s glance with a slight smirk. She appeared drunk with lust, breathing heavily and reaching for her nipples. John obliged by licking and pulling them gently between his lips. Irene moaned. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt her body hum like this. She scratched at John’s scalp and tugged at his hair, arching her back to press her breast further into his mouth.

Sherlock rocked onto his side and watched them for a moment, substituting his index finger for his tongue. He licked it and made it as wet as possible and then traced lines between her clitoris and her vagina. He inched his other hand into place and experimentally dipped a finger inside her, feeling her muscles contract. It felt different than being inside John. It was extremely wet and smooth and pliable. He imagined how wonderful it would feel to fuck her. But he thought better of it, and returned to licking her clit in wet swirls while his index finger worked at her opening. Many minutes passed. Irene seemed to be shivering and melting all at once.

“That’s … sooo … lovely…” she cooed between heaving breaths.

“Yes, you are.” John said, running his tongue along the outer ridge of her ear. Irene was already flushed, but she blushed down to her neck at John’s words. Sherlock looked up and replaced his tongue with finger again, not wanting to miss their interaction. He smiled at John while he rubbed smooth circles over her clit and soon her thighs began to quiver.

“Getting … close.” she moaned.

John moved his hand down her stomach and replaced Sherlock’s with his own. “I’ve got it now.” He picked up the same stroke Sherlock had been using. Then he dipped his head down and lapped at her clit and moved a knuckle between her labia experimentally. “So warm,” he remarked. “Gorgeous.” He licked her in gentle circles. “Just gorgeous.”

John slid his feet to the floor and pulled Irene by the hips to the corner of the bed. He arranged her legs up over his shoulders and guided his cock inside her very, very slowly with a sumptuous groan. Sherlock wrapped himself around John from behind, pinching John’s nipples and kissing his neck. John’s head lolled back on Sherlock’s chest as he started rolling his hips. His strokes gradually reached a steady, luxurious pace and Irene made soft, cat-like noises, tossing her head back and forth.

“Irene,” John called out to her quietly while his hips were working in a steady rhythm. His face was solemn. His voice was completely earnest. “Talk to us. Tell us what you need.”

“This. This.. is … just … perfect,” she panted. John nodded in agreement. Irene gazed up at Sherlock who caught her staring at him wantonly. “Can I look at you Sherlock? Come out where I can see you.”

Sherlock was so aroused he almost couldn’t follow her directions, but he stumbled back on to the bed with his bright pink erection bobbing between his long, muscular thighs.

“I’m here,” he smiled, looking thoroughly debauched. He sat back on his heels, pulling on his cock with stiff strokes.

“Look at you both,” she marveled, moving her hand down so she could stimulate herself.

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on her hand, watching John pumping into her as her stomach trembled, inching closer to her orgasm. The three of them strained to touch one another. John rested his hand on Sherlock’s bicep, the only part of him he could reach while Irene stroked Sherlock’s thigh. The contact made Sherlock pump harder into his hand. He closed his eyes tightly and threw his head back. He came in long ribbons, making a swallowed howling sound in the back of his throat.

Irene released her legs from John’s shoulders and opened them as wide as they could stretch. “Harder, John,” she pleaded, and John obliged with a wallop of his hips. She whined in a wavering pitch as her orgasm overtook her, and John crouched close to her body with an animalistic grunt, filling her with fluid. The room seemed to spin while they gasped for breath, each of them clutching at some part of each other, all three of their hearts hammering.

Sherlock was the first to change positions. He collapsed on the bed next to Irene and grazed on her mouth. John grimaced as he pulled out of Irene and crawled on top of the two of them. They were sweaty and sticky and delirious and they nuzzled and nipped at each other’s necks for another few minutes.

They were pulling sheets around them when Irene noticed her leg had stopped bleeding. “Oh look!” she said. John immediately jumped up and turned on the lights. Her leg was sticky with perspiration and other fluids, so it wasn’t easy for John to see, but her skin looked clear.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” John gave her a hand up out of bed with smiling eyes and led her to the shower.  

When Irene emerged towelling her hair, the skin on her thigh was pristine.  “Amazing!” she kept saying, over and over again. “Miraculous!"

Sherlock snaked an arm around John’s hip and kissed his shoulder from behind. “Yes he is, isn’t he?”

John’s reflection smiled at them both in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that makes up for the last chapter. Please leave kudos/comments as you see fit. They make me exceedingly happy. See you next Monday with the next chapter :)


	4. Spreadsheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's for science, John!

When John returned to Baker Street from the clinic on Monday, the wall above the sofa was plastered with various papers: renderings of Irene’s flat, excerpts from police reports, crime scene photos, spreadsheets, anatomical diagrams, images printed from BDSM websites, newspaper clippings, more spreadsheets, and several enlarged images of a very muscular man holding a very large gun. The pixels were too dark and grainy to clearly distinguish facial features other than an impressive set of bright white teeth.

“Moran?” John asked, approaching Sherlock’s back.

“Obviously.”

It took John a moment before he noticed the steaming cup of tea prepared exactly the way he liked it waiting for him on the counter. It made him smile to himself. He sipped his tea and contemplated a particularly grim photo.

“What do we know?”

“According to MI6, Moran has never resided in Europe, but it is believed he has spent two extended periods in London under an assumed identity; five weeks in 2007 and three weeks in 2010. New Scotland Yard has cold case files for a string of murders corresponding with each of those periods of time where the bodies appeared to have been sexually tortured.” Sherlock tossed a stack of pathology reports to John.

John sat in his chair and scanned page after page in quiet horror. “Not. Pretty.”

“Metal implements were apparently used. Not a trace of foreign DNA.” Sherlock noticed his silence and observed the tight line of his mouth. “You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re worried.”

John rubbed his forehead. "Well, a bit.”

“Why are you worried?”

“I just, I guess I don’t see how it’s going to work, ok? She needs to have an orgasm to heal, Sherlock.”

“I know. I was there.”

“Most people can’t experience heightened arousal while they’re in pain.”

Sherlock returned his attention to the wall of papers. “I think we can agree that Irene Adler isn’t ‘most people.’”

“There are so many variables. We can't anticipate--"

“I’ve been running the data since this morning, and--”

“What data?”

“Irene agreed to track the timing of her orgasms during different types of pain exposure, and --”

“Wait, what?” John stammered.

Sherlock swung his head around to look at John, and rolled his eyes slightly, “Oh, do keep up, John. We can’t possibly expect a successful procedure without clear safety parameters! I had to collect data!”

John slammed down his tea cup and stood up, suddenly livid. “Well somebody’s had a bloody busy day!”

Sherlock was caught off guard. “It was just research!”

“And was this research conducted _personally?”_ John planted his feet firmly in front of Sherlock.  

Sherlock stood tall and puffed up defensively.  “It was for the case!”

John sniffed and turned his head for a long moment, nearly smiling with rage. “Well yes! I see! Well that’s completely different then! And when were you planning on letting me--”

“There wasn’t time, John!”

John stood stiffly, clenching and releasing his left fist, which Sherlock caught sight of immediately.

Sherlock was appalled. “No! You can’t! You can’t actually be … possessive?”

John stretched his neck and avoided looking at Sherlock in an effort to get his anger under control.

“Seriously, John? Your cock plays host to a veritable parade of orifices! Literally daily!”

“That’s not--”

“How?” Sherlock matched his volume. “Please! Explain! How is it not exactly the same?”

Emotion crackled between them. Sherlock’s eyes were wild with so many emotions -- jealousy, hurt, righteous indignation, resentment -- long suppressed and finally unleashed. They pummeled John in his gut like a series of vicious accusations.

John deflated visibly.  Guilt and shame washed away the anger on his face. He struggled to slow down his breathing and collect his thoughts. When he finally broke the silence, he sounded weary and heartbroken.

“You said,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “that my appointments … didn’t bother you.”

Sherlock lost a bit of confidence, but tried to sound resolute. “They don’t.”

John’s eyes fell on the floor, his eyebrows crowded together. “Then it is different.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t,” John was beginning to tremble. “I am.”

“You’re what?”

John swallowed. He lifted his eyes looking vulnerable and brave all at once. “Possessive. Jealous, I guess."  He scrubbed his eyes. "Jesus!”

Sherlock felt a pang of compassion and reflexively reached for John’s trembling hand, but John resisted.

He asserted himself in a loud whisper. “I have never loved anyone like you, Sherlock! No one! Ever! I’m in so far over my head.” His voice began to crack. He tried to calm down. “Just tell me the truth.” John's eyes, heavy and blue as the ocean, met Sherlock's, clear and bright as the sky. “Is this what you feel like, knowing I’m with other people?”

Sherlock looked and sounded meek. “No.”

John raised his chin to challenge him, somehow taking up twice as much space all of the sudden, his chest heaving.

Sherlock receded.  His voice was small and laden with guilt. “Sometimes.”

John appeared lost. Grief struck. He shook his head in bewilderment, then his voice swept up towards the ceiling in exasperation, along with his arms. “Christ! Sherlock! How could you possibly live every day feeling like this?”

Sherlock out-shouted him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen to me!"

John couldn't make eye contact with him, his face the picture of misery.

Sherlock pleaded, "It’s not, it’s not like it used to be!"

"Like what used to be?"

"How it felt before."

“Before when?”

“Before I knew. Before I was sure.”

“Of what?”

Sherlock was gravely serious. “That you belonged to me.”

John closed his eyes, finally allowing his body to curl in towards Sherlock’s with a shaky breath. “I do. God help me, you massive git.” He allowed Sherlock to hold him. “I do.”

Sherlock pulled at John’s jumper and pressed his forehead to John's. “You must know I belong to you too, John. Utterly. Absolutely.”

John breathed in Sherlock's scent as he mapped his friend's face with his fingertips. An aftershock of sadness and anger overtook him. “We have to communicate, Sherlock! You can't just--"

Sherlock interrupted him with a ferocious kiss. John indulged, relieved, before remembering to make his point. He broke the kiss panting. "Just, please, don't do anything like this again.”

Mycroft’s voice startled them from nowhere. “Yes, well, there will never be another situation like this again.”

John and Sherlock instantaneously let go of each other, practically twitching from shock. John walked in a circle, shaking his head in disbelief while Sherlock charged at Mycroft, yelling “Out! Get out this instant, you insolent --”

Mycroft remained unflappable. “I don’t plan on staying long, gentlemen.”

John was still furious. “Have you even heard of knocking?”

“I’m here to inform you we need to move quickly. Ms. Adler received word that Moran will be paying his visit at twenty two hundred hours tonight."

John and Sherlock were still steaming, but this new information brought their tirade to a halt.

Mycroft continued, “He tends to keep his victims off balance, which means he is likely to show even earlier, unannounced, giving us very little time to coordinate the plan and move into position.”

Sherlock glanced at his phone to check the time.

John tightened his jaw. “I’m not even sure what the plan is.”

Sherlock tried to reassure him. “Irene and I have worked out three probable sequences.”

John winced a bit.

Sherlock changed his approach. “I can explain all the details on the way over. If she survives the encounter, and Moran leaves, we have a strategy for reviving her." He looked toward Mycroft and continued, “But we don’t have a contingency if he goes too far.”

“My team has ensured that every square centimetre of her flat is within range of audio visual surveillance. We’ll observe events as they unfold, and agents are strategically posted at six surrounding locations.”

John looked down at the stack of pathology reports. His eyes landed on a photo of a female corpse and his attention wandered; he imagined Irene in her place, being pleasured by Sherlock, being tortured by Moran, bleeding out on the hardwood floor of her posh flat. He hated her. He hated her fascination with Sherlock. He hated being in love with someone so extraordinary. He hated this mission. Why in hell did they ever sign on to this in the first place?

Sherlock moved to John’s side. Neither of them was listening to Mycroft any longer.

“The car will be downstairs in ten minutes.” Flummoxed by their inattention, Mycroft enunciated loudly, “Are we clear?”

“Ten minutes. Right,” John said as Mycroft saw himself out.

Sherlock wrapped both hands around John’s clenched fist, but John was still lost in his thoughts.

“This is a terrible idea,” John muttered.

Sherlock entreated, “It’s our best chance to be rid of Moriarty. Forever.”

John recalled the smell of chlorine, the sensation of panic, the red points of light that invaded his dreams.

Sherlock lowered his head to kiss John’s hand. “No more looking over our shoulders. No more nightmares. No more waiting, John. We’ll be free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a feedback junkie. Comments & kudos are better than crack ;-)


	5. Cave Canem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - the game is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I previously mentioned that CWB is so much more than a beta? She's a goddess. Like an actual goddess. Ok?

Five laptops sat on a table, each displaying four separate feeds of streaming video. Three men wearing suits and headsets sat monitoring them in a dusty garage two doors down from Irene’s flat, and one familiar-looking brunette in a bespoke suit addressed John and Sherlock without making any eye contact with them whatsoever.

She referred to the drama unfolding on the bank of computer screens with a nod, but her eyes never left her Blackberry. “That’s Miss Adler’s assistant, Kate,” she reported, texting all the while. “She just received a delivery from an unregistered vehicle.”

Kate was visible from several camera angles in this digital mosaic. She was struggling to push an enormous crate over the threshold of the front door without much success. John had difficulty paying attention to the video when he realized that everyone in the room, Sherlock included, even Kate on the screens, was wearing a suit. Everyone except him. Strange, John thought to himself; he didn’t think it was possible to feel more uncomfortable than he already did.

Soon Irene appeared on the video feed descending the stairs. John wasn’t sure it was her at first. Her appearance was dramatically different, with her hair slicked back and those… boots? She looked something like an ultra-posh gladiator all laced up in straps.

Well, he thought to himself, at least now I'm not the only one not wearing a suit.

It was a bizarre scene: two very different, very pretty ladies scraping their high heels into the floor in their efforts to drag and push the bulky box. It reminded John of a science fiction film from the 1950s with a giant woman towering over the edifices of an American city.  

Eventually the women managed to get the unwieldy parcel inside and close the door behind them. Irene suddenly appeared distracted and grabbed her phone.

“He’s texted her instructions.” Sherlock deduced, partially capturing the attention of the men in headsets.  

Irene’s text came through on one of the screens: CAVE CANEM

“Beware of Dog?” John offered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave John a worried look.

Kate had fetched a boxcutter and began unsealing the package. They tore off the brown paper to reveal a wooden crate with a key taped to the top.

Another text came through: PRIVATE LESSON

Irene said something to Kate. Kate shook her head, but Irene insisted and gave her a deep kiss, eliciting a hoot from the men in headsets. Kate went into another another room, grabbed her keys and purse, and left without another word.  

Text number three arrived: BETTER

Irene peeled the key from the top of the crate and walked around it slowly. She found the shiny latch holding the four sides in place and unlocked it. The wood boards fell away. She slid off the top panel and all that remained was a metal cage. The contents were dark and indistinguishable, but the cage appeared to be rattling.

“She’s got a live one in there!” one of the men snickered as he slapped at the arm of the man seated next to him.

Irene slid the key into the final lock and separated the latch securing the cage door. The door slowly drifted open on its own.

She disappeared into an adjacent room for a moment to grab something long -- a riding crop? a whip? -- then she returned to face the open cage door, squatting low in those impossible heels. She was speaking.

“We need the audio,” Sherlock demanded.

One of the men removed his headset and pulled it from the jack when she was mid-sentence.

“... very very bad!” Irene spoke with fierce authority.

The dark bundle in the cage began to change shape. One shiny black limb stretched onto the floor, followed by another. The limbs arranged themselves into the shape of Sebastian Moran’s faceless body. Black latex encased broad, square shoulders and wiry muscles. His head was enclosed in a glossy black hood save his mouth and chin. When he looked up at Irene, there was a flash of distinctly large white curved teeth clamped around a bright red gag.

“We have our dog," said Sherlock.  

Irene stood up and cracked the whip. “You stay low, you wicked thing!” She took careful backward steps while he slithered on his belly, following after her toes.

John listened carefully. "Is he actually growling?"

"Moran’s roleplay," Sherlock answered.

Suddenly Moran sprung at Irene and swept her legs out from under her in a single violent motion. Her head hit the floor with painful slam. The screens displayed a black tangle, like two bodies drowning in an oil slick as she struggled against him, but he quickly overpowered her, pinning her arms over her head.

“Is this part of the roleplay, too?” John asked nervously.

“She’s agreed to engage in a struggle for dominance that would end in them switching roles. But, at some point he’s going to exceed the parameters --”

Suddenly Moran contorted Irene’s arm. He pressed his weight down on her until there was a revolting sound somewhere between a pop and a crunch. Everyone watching jumped as Irene let out a sickening wail.

“... of consent." Sherlock said tensely. "Well. That was quick."

John muttered, horrified. “He just fucking broke her arm.”

Irene lay there trembling, her arm twisted at an unnatural angle behind her head. She huffed short breaths through her nose, her painted lips and eyes pinched shut in pain. Moran stood over her. He removed the red gag from his mouth and bound her ankles together with it. Irene appeared to be repeating something insistently, but it wasn't clear on the audio.

Moran cocked his head to listen and smiled a bright, menacing smile. “What’s that sweetheart?” His voice was as rough as his hands as he tied the binding in excruciatingly tight knots. “Is that the word that means I’m supposed to stop now?” He released her legs and her boots clattered against the hardwood floor, causing a painful jolt to her upper body. She cried out in agony.  

He returned to the open cage and reached inside to grab a small black satchel.  

“And those would be the metal implements,” Sherlock said with resignation.

Moran turned back toward her and casually tossed it on the ground with a smirk. It made a clanging, tinny sound like it was filled with heavy silverware.

John dragged a palm against his mouth helplessly. “Jesus Christ.”

None of the displays had an unobstructed view of Moran's hands as he unrolled the bundle and picked through its contents, but one angle had a clear shot of his profile. He was breathing heavily and moving his mouth constantly, tensing his stubbled jaw and biting his lips in concentration.

He selected something.  

Sherlock moved closer to the screens, squinting to make out the metal object in Moran’s gloved fingers. John lunged at the table crowding between two of the men in headsets to get a closer look, his eyes tracking from one screen to another. There still wasn’t a clear view.

Moran leaned over Irene’s grimacing face and made a lascivious display of licking his massive teeth. He dragged the blade up the center of her corset, slicing through the delicate fabric as easily as if he were unzipping it. “There, you see?” he taunted, bringing his eyes within inches of hers. “That’s a good girl.”

Irene swung her good arm at him in a sudden rush, knocking the object out of his fingers with a clinking sound. It skittered and spun in plain view of one of the cameras for a few seconds, and John stared at it while the couple tussled.

John finally identified the weapon. He looked stricken. “It’s a hunting knife with a _gut hook,_ Sherlock."

Sherlock instantly understood. He pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft furiously while shouting orders at the agents. “We have to abort! Immediately!"

The room became noisy with chatter on phones and headsets. A pair of agents departed and a new team of agents flooded the room, followed by Mycroft who was speaking rapid fire into his phone. Sherlock grabbed a headset to hear what was happening, his eyes shifting constantly between the screens, tracking and analyzing each and every detail.

Moran regained his balance and backhanded Irene across the face with a powerful crack, knocking a light spray of blood across the floor. He shook out his wrist and chuckled, muttering to himself, “She’s a fighter! I love the fighters.”

Two video feeds on adjacent screens displayed Irene’s body and face respectively. Her corset was flayed open, revealing an angry red slash down the center of her milky torso. Blood streaked across her nose and chin, and black makeup pooled around her eyes, but her expression was positively brazen.

“Look at the poor man,” she mocked. “Your master doesn’t let you play your little game at home, does he?”

His smile dissolved and his eyes glowed with hatred. “You don’t get to talk anymore, whore.”

Moran reached out and picked up the knife. There was a soft popping sound and he dropped it abruptly. Blood streamed from a hole in the back of his gloved hand, which he examined with stunned curiosity. The noise was audible a second time and a similar hole bloomed in the latex encasing his bicep. Moran searched his body and his surroundings in confusion as his legs gave out beneath him.

Sherlock’s eyes jumped between video feeds. “Can you see the sniper, John?” The room was so noisy that it took a moment before he realized that John hadn’t answered. He twisted in his seat to survey all three hundred sixty degrees, scanning the crowd with suspicious eyes.

He found the space to be disturbingly lacking in army doctors.

Just then, he heard the distinct voice of his older brother very nearly shouting into his phone. “What do you mean it wasn’t our agent?”

Sherlock smiled to himself. It was so rare for him to make a deduction ahead of Mycroft. He wanted to savour it. But the moment was cut piteously short when Mycroft's eyes landed on his smug expression.

Sherlock watched with delight as his brother's eyebrows dropped from their highest to their lowest station."Oh never mind!" He glowered pointedly at Sherlock and ended his call in exasperation.

The front door to Irene's flat slammed open, and a stream of MI6 and medics flooded through the main hall. All of them set to work immediately, subduing and restraining the villain, inspecting and bandaging injuries, collecting and conveying information. Within minutes, Moran was stripped, cuffed to a gurney, and whisked away in a black windowless van.

Irene was a second hub of activity. The medics temporarily set her arm in a splint, cleaned her wounds, and untied her ankles (deciding, after some deliberation, to leave her baffling footwear intact). The noisy cortege hustled her smoothly onto a stretcher and delivered her through the front door just in time to be intercepted by a stalwart army doctor in a dark blue jumper.

John had been holding his sig in his right hand, resting the silencer in his left palm, but he tucked it away in his pants. “She goes upstairs,” he ordered, gesturing up with a jerk of his chin.

Irene lit up at the sound of his voice. The team looked disconcerted, shuffling and talking to one another. John stood immovable, silhouetted in the flashing and flooding lights from emergency vehicles on the street below.

“You heard Dr. Watson!” Sherlock’s voice bellowed from nowhere a moment before he became visible on the steps behind John. “Take the woman upstairs!”

John smirked at Irene without turning around. Sherlock strode past them imperiously, ignoring the perfectly lurid crime scene in favour of the stairs, gracefully climbing them two at a time.

Mycroft appeared next behind John, tapping up the entryway steps with his umbrella. “Dr. Watson is in charge of Ms. Adler’s care now,” he directed. “Do exactly as he says.”

The team instantly deferred to Mycroft and reversed their direction back into the flat. John followed the procession up the stairs, unassuming as ever but completely self possessed, like a humble hero at the end of a military parade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see Irene's Alexander McQueen boots: https://36.media.tumblr.com/85894c1586ad4cea5c67297065f627ef/tumblr_nolhjusHai1s546ofo1_500.jpg


	6. Tête-à-tête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex isn’t always physical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks always to CWB for her magnanimous support.

"Bed," Sherlock barked without turning around.  He was surveying the street activity through the enormous bay windows in Irene's bedroom, his upper body veiled behind a cloud of sheer silk curtains.

The medics carefully transferred Irene from the stretcher to the pillowy duvet under John’s watchful scrutiny. “That will be all, thank you,” he nodded. They acknowledged John timidly and scuttled down the stairs.

“What’s your pain level on a scale of one to ten?” the doctor asked his patient.

“Eight,” she said a bit weakly. “Unless I breathe.”

John raised an eyebrow mischievously. “You’re going to need to breathe.”

Sherlock crossed the room towards them. “Maybe even hyperventilate.”

Irene was rigid with pain, but her eyes were half lidded and her mouth curled into an impish grin. “Look at you two. You’ll be the absolute death of me.”

Sherlock gazed at her with wry warmth in his eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually.” He perched on the bed next to her and began patiently unlacing the miles and miles of black shoestring that crisscrossed her left thigh. John joined in on her right.

“I can’t believe I got off so easily. Why did they stop him so soon?”

“Because of the type of blade he was using,” John answered. “He could have literally eviscerated you. There’s no way we could have revived you if that happened.”

Irene looked troubled, lost in her thoughts. After a full minute of silence, she reached out to touch John’s elbow with her good hand. “Thank you,” she said with genuine humility. “You didn’t have to stop it when you did. And you didn’t have to send the medics away. It’s just a broken bone.”

“Nonsense.” John reassured her. “Bruises, lacerations, a possible concussion, maybe two or three broken bones. You risked your life for Queen and country.”

Sherlock worked her left foot out from under the last few laces. “And we are nothing if we are not men of our word.”

John was not making much headway on his side. He scratched the back of his head with a bemused expression. "These. Are. Ludicrous."

"Couture, John." Sherlock took over the job of unlacing on the right side. "It weeds out the philistines."

Irene suppressed a smile and whined. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts more when I laugh."

"Which reminds me. Sherlock, could you please fetch this patient a glass of water?"

Sherlock gestured at his handiwork with a smirk. "Bit tied up at the moment."

Irene panted, trying not to giggle. "Ow!"

"Birk." John rolled his eyes, unsuccessfully suppressing a smirk of his own.

He left to retrieve the water himself. When he returned, he couldn't help but lean against the doorway for a moment to watch them. He'd never seen Sherlock like this: huddled in a cozy tête-à-tête. He'd never seen him exchange witticisms with anyone as equals, playfully, without a hint of contempt. John felt a bit of insecurity tugging at his heart, but his face was awash with fondness. He loved seeing Sherlock being Sherlock. And Sherlock was so very Sherlock in this moment.

John noticed Irene’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and while Sherlock was doing a marvelous job of distracting her, she was obviously in a great deal of pain. So he removed a small prescription bottle from his pocket and rattled it to get their attention. “Let’s take the edge off, shall we?”

Sherlock glanced at the bottle, then did an angry double take. "Wait, how--"

"I know where you hide things, you pillock," John chided. He poured out two little pills and helped Irene take them. “Besides, who the hell is --” he read the label “-- A.W. Jones? And how exactly did you come by his morphine prescription? Wait. You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t actually want to know.”

“Mr. Jones was well beyond the help of opioids when I encountered him.”

John shook his head, bewildered. He looked at Irene. "You see what I have to put up with?"

She considered both of them for a moment. "I see that you keep him in line."

John tilted his head and conceded with a modest nod. Sherlock shot him a withering look.

Next, her eyes appraised John carefully. "I see that you like taking care of people, but you pretend not to."

Sherlock looked mildly impressed. John shot him his own withering look.

Finally her gaze landed on Sherlock. "And I see that you like him taking care of you, but you pretend you don't."

Sherlock blinked repeatedly. He opened and closed his mouth. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic.

John's eyes smiled. He looked at her intently. "You ... read people. Like he does."

Irene's eyes softened as they traced an arc from John's face over to Sherlock's. "I know what people like."

It was a simple sentence. Just a few words. But they washed over Sherlock, soaking him through. What people “like.” It sounded so trivial. What he liked and what John liked were secret even to themselves. And yet there it was, exposed to the woman's observing eyes. Plain as day.

He stared at, and through, and past her, contemplating the idea.

 _Like._ It isn’t the same as want. Is it a component of wanting? A precursor. Or maybe it's about pleasure. An element of pleasure. The product of pleasure. Pleasure when it becomes known.

_Desire._

His eyes refocused on the woman as if he were seeing her for the first time.

Irene’s eyes were already starting to glaze over from the morphine’s effects. Her posture relaxed. Her breathing deepened. But her gaze fastened onto Sherlock's, reading the epiphany on his face.

John broke the electric silence. "You're doing it again."

Sherlock nearly jumped. “What? Doing what?”

“That thing you do with -- that she does with you.” He huffed out a nervous laugh. “When I have no fucking idea if I’m even in the same room with you two anymore.”

Irene arched and stretched despite her injuries. She couldn’t find the energy to pick and choose her words so they escaped her lips freely. She beamed up at him. "Oh John, don't be jealous. You're perfect. Absolutely perfect. You're a bloody miracle."

John's eyebrows practically collided.

Sherlock was tickled. “She’s right, you know.”

Irene yawned a bit and smiled at Sherlock wickedly. “Always.”

John recognized the medicine’s effects and his demeanor immediately shifted from peevish lover to attentive professional. “Feeling better then? Still an eight?”

She rested her cheek on the duvet and let her eyes close. “Mmm, yes. An eight. But it’s … slower. And I don’t care as much.”

Sherlock’s face went hazy with empathy. “Ah, that’s the stuff.”

John gave him a half-hearted glare, but Sherlock was irrepressible. “It seems our window of opportunity may be closing shortly. Shall we proceed?”

John sat next to Irene and examined her dilated pupils. “Irene? Can you hear me?”

“Of course,” she smiled lazily.

“Are you too sleepy to … get on with our plan?”

“You’re so coy sometimes, it’s positively adorable." She turned her head to smile at him innocently, but her eyes were liquid sin. "Yes, Doctor Watson. Please fuck me, and make me come, and perform your miracle. Then fuck me some more, and then fuck that gorgeous boyfriend of yours. I promise I won’t touch him,” she batted her eyelashes at John, “unless you want me to.”

The two men were taken aback. They looked at each other with equal parts amazement and amusement.

Sherlock's eyebrows climbed up to meet his dark curls as his thoughts swam up toward a second epiphany -- something about Irene, and desire, and the legend of the Gordian knot. But suddenly his brain went offline. All the blood above his neck had dropped precipitously, landing between his legs with a heavy thud.  

John decisively cleared his throat and licked his lips. “Well, alright then!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fret not, dear readers, the sexytimes will be here before you know it ;-) In the meantime, would be so kind as to send me some encouragement in the form of kudos/comments? It keeps my strength up!


	7. Verpa Rex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confirms his thesis that John Hamish Watson is, in fact, a force of nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took extra time & extra love - both from me & from my glorious beta, CWB. Hope it was worth the wait ;)

There’s a moment just before the body takes over, when higher brain activities (i.e. speech, thought, and reason) are hijacked by lower brain activities (i.e. physical and emotional response). In romantic films, this moment is typically underscored with a swell of orchestral music, while adult films tend to employ more percussive instrumentation. Without the benefit of a soundtrack this moment often passes unnoticed in real life. But sensations within the nervous system have their own visceral musicality. Pulses elevate, pupils dilate, respiration accelerates, glands secrete, a concert only audible within the confines of one’s own skin.

Irene’s bedroom was alive with this soundless music; otherwise, the air was dead silent.

John had never before paid much attention to the moment of erotic anticipation. But now, for some reason, he felt the weight of it. He wanted to luxuriate in it. He was the man of the hour after all. He stroked his chin. He traced his pouted lips with the pad of his index finger. Where to begin, John thought to himself. He looked at Sherlock and lifted his chin, instructing him with casual authority. "Take off your clothes."

Sherlock froze. It took a few moments for him to find his hands and set them to work. He seemed to have lost his fine motor skills, unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping with frantic impatience. John felt a rush of affection for his ham-handed lover, but he schooled his expression, giving nothing away. Finally Sherlock stood up, tension visible in every part of his body.

John got up and walked around Sherlock, stopping directly in Irene’s line of vision. He unbuckled and unzipped his own trousers and stood with his arms crossed. “Over here. On your knees.”

Sherlock hopped to it.

With tremendous effort, Irene rolled partially onto her side to take in a better view. Her glassy eyes focused as sharply as they could, agog to see what would happen next. John’s eyes darted over out of concern for her injuries. But once she had managed to reposition herself and her breathing returned to normal, he resumed.

John looked down and stroked Sherlock's precious face. He resembled a puppy begging for a taste of his master’s dinner. Happy to oblige, John freed his cock from his pants without disturbing his trousers and touched it against Sherlock’s lips. His eyes were kind. “I want to fuck your mouth. Is that alright?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

John seized two handfuls of black curls, rooting his fingers into Sherlock's scalp. "Take a deep breath."

No sooner than Sherlock had inhaled, John yanked him forward by the hair and plunged into his throat. He dug relentlessly into Sherlock's esophagus, grinding with small movements that gave him no space to breathe. After ten long seconds, he pulled Sherlock's hair just as forcefully in the opposite direction. Sherlock arched back gasping for air, looking like he had just escaped from some undersea entanglement.

John looked down at his lover while they both caught their breath. "You all right?" he asked tenderly, carding through his curls.

Sherlock nodded furiously and managed to speak despite being winded. "Never ... better."

They both smiled a little and John stooped over to reward him with a deep kiss when he noticed the woman in his periphery. A twinge of self consciousness caught him by surprise. How had he forgotten she was there in such a short space of time? Bit distracted, he supposed with a grin.

Irene looked a right mess, gaping and heated and entirely spellbound. John was chuffed.

"Want some more?" he asked Sherlock.

"Oh god yes," Sherlock replied.

He filled his lungs again and completely surrendered to the second onslaught. This time Sherlock nuzzled all the way down into John's pubic hair making obscene gurgling noises. John nearly lost control of his pleasure and tore Sherlock's head back with a shout.

John stood, panting, waiting for his brain to come back online. Once he was capable of thought, he eyed Sherlock and Irene in their respective states of devastation and quickly devised a plan. "Why don't you help Irene get more comfortable, yeah?"

She wasn't wearing much, but Sherlock dutifully unhooked and untied what was left of Irene's costume until she wore nothing but the splint and a pair of lacy knickers. By the time he stretched them over her hips, past her knees, and finally off her toes, John was standing over them, naked, at parade rest. His cock saluted.

Irene looked utterly wrecked with desire. Her movements were limited by her injuries, but she strained and squirmed and pleaded with her eyes. John was never one to stand idly by while someone was suffering. He climbed over her and spoke in a soothing tone. "There there now. It's alright."

Sherlock immediately understood his role was to assist and support the good doctor's efforts. He ensconced himself behind Irene, fluffed a pillow on his lap, and carefully moved her head to rest there. Irene relaxed. John's eyes subtly indicated approval.

"There, you see?" John reassured his patient as he pressed his erection against her. "It's alright. I've got you."

John guided the head of his cock to nudge against her clitoris, which was very warm and inviting, but as he recalled from his medical texts, lacked the requisite firmness associated with engorgement. Irene pushed up seeking friction, but John took himself in hand and swiped down her labia, inching further away. Seconds later he was rewarded with pure liquid heat. He indulged there, holding his cock, taking shallow dips, painting swirls and stripes, spreading the slickness upwards. Irene moaned.

He encircled her clit in moisture until he felt the change -- a hot, tablet-sized button pushing back against him -- a small but miraculous transformation that made John's testicles twitch sympathetically. He and Irene shuddered in unison. Sherlock shuddered too, unconsciously grinding his erection against the pillow in his lap. He and John made hazy eye contact.

Irene impatiently bucked underneath him, but John held her steady by the hip bones. "Shhh. Easy now," he whispered into her neck. "Just breathe." And without further warning, his head dropped below her waist. With a surgeon's fingers, he located and exposed the tiny jewel.

John used the tip of his tongue to burnish it with heavy pressure, but she retracted her hips. Her evasion told him to temper his approach, so he experimented with several different strokes, licking and laving until he landed on the one that made her writhe against his mouth.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, deduced that the woman was nearing a plateau in her pleasure, and with a violinist’s fingers, expertly pebbled and rolled her nipples. Irene slammed her head back with a feline yowl.

“Somebody kiss me!” she demanded.

John hurled himself upwards and licked deeply into her mouth. She devoured his lips and hungrily thrusted her pelvis. But while John’s lips pressed hard against hers, John’s hips shied away. His hand repositioned the head of his cock to stroke her clit with the edge of his corona. He swiped the head lower to circle just inside her entrance and traced lazy figure-eights through the turgid peaks and valleys of her anatomy. After long minutes of delicious torture, Irene’s whines turned into sobs of frustration.

John took pity on her. He ducked his head between her thighs and gave her precisely what she wanted. Sherlock watched with rapt attention as John disassembled the woman piece by piece. She was trembling, and keening, and curling her toes; her skin radiated heat and colour and pheromones. When John finally penetrated her, Irene Adler was not subtle in expressing her approval, crushing his ribcage between her tangled legs and invoking all the members of the holy family in decidedly unchristian terms.

Doctor Watson completely filled and fulfilled his patient, who allowed herself a whole minute to catch her breath before stretching out her freshly uninjured arms to drag a certain consulting detective out of his lustful stupor. He toppled onto all fours over Irene while she slid below his navel and swallowed down his aching cock.

Sherlock nearly came straight away. He closed his eyes and struggled mightily to maintain his composure through deep, blissful shivers that fanned out from his testicles to somewhere behind and beyond his body. He breathed through his nose, fighting against each throb of pleasure, when he felt the hearty clap of John’s palm against his arse. Spurred on by the shock, he gave himself over to fucking Irene’s mouth with unbridled enthusiasm.

Sherlock felt John’s hand glide from his arse to his tailbone, where it traveled up his spine, wrapped around his torso, and pulled Sherlock back against his chest. The comforting softness of John’s chest hair against his shoulder blades distracted him from his impending orgasm at first, but when John whispered filthy things into his ear, Sherlock was truly done for. He turned his face to kiss John with unholy passion, groaning into his mouth and ejaculating into Irene’s.

John’s strong arms pulled Sherlock’s body out of the path of colliding with Irene in just enough time for him to collapse onto the duvet like a rag doll. Irene rolled onto her side and stretched her arms in a proud display of flexibility.

John smiled, admiring her fully mended arm. “Show off.”

Irene smiled, admiring his rosy pink cock, still gleaming with vitality. “You should talk.”

Sherlock snored.

Irene raised an eyebrow. “Well that was fast.”

John shook his head and shrugged. “He never sleeps when he’s on a case.”

“Poor thing.”

Sherlock snored again.

John yawned. “Sounds good right about now, doesn’t it? It’s been a hell of a long day.”

“It most certainly has.”

They wrangled the bedding out from under each sleepy limb of the comatosed detective and laid on either side of him. The sheet billowed as it drifted over their damp skin.

“Good night,” Irene yawned as she turned off the lamp.

“Night.” John replied.

Sherlock snored and pawed at John’s waist, reflexively curling against his back. And they all slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! It's been a long day for me too. Good night! Please leave comments/kudos as you see fit.


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